


Treatise on Wire Hangers

by TCRegan



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Caning, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Incest, Kink Meme, M/M, Parent/Child Incest, Physical Abuse, Rape, Suicide, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-21
Updated: 2014-02-21
Packaged: 2018-01-13 06:10:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1215580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TCRegan/pseuds/TCRegan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a kinkmeme fill here: http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/8832.html?thread=34806912#t34806912</p>
<p>Following the death of her husband, Leandra Hawke falls into a depressive state and blames her eldest for the ills that have befallen the Hawke family.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Pardon my POV switches, first person was necessary for the first and final chapters. Everything else is third. Enjoy!

To understand why all this happened, you need to know more about Mother. I never blamed her, not really. She had been a great mom. Maybe a little high-strung, a little nervous, a little overprotective. But wouldn't you be in her case? She'd eloped with an apostate and spent her years running around Ferelden, trying to stay one step ahead of the templars, trying to keep her babies safe. It only got worse after my father died. But still, I don't blame her. She was just trying to raise us. To make sure we grew up to be good people.

When I was twelve and the twins were nearly six, she walked in on us playing some card game that we all thought would be funnier if we bet clothing. We were kids, it wasn't meant to be anything. And I'd grown up with them, shared baths with them, we even slept in the same bed together due to lack of space. Carver and Bethany? Nearly inseparable. And they looked up to me, their big brother. Which is why I was to blame that day.

So you see, it's my fault this all happened. I should have known better.

She hit me. Hard. I remember I bled all over my smallclothes and she made me clean them. Carver and Bethany didn't know what to say and I didn't know what to say in return. Mother told them I'd been bad, and they accepted it. Bethany offered sympathy, but Carver was determined to be the good son. So he turned on me. Not that I blame him. Mother encouraged him to go out, to make friends. She caught him with Peaches behind our shed and gave him candy, praising him for finding a girlfriend.

When she found Bethany kissing the farmer's boy though, I was punished. I should've kept Bethany safe. I should've beaten up the farmer's boy for touching my little sister. If Bethany got pregnant or turned into the templars, it would be on my head. So I kept my eye on her. She didn't blame me, at least, I don't think she did. Bethany… how I miss her. How she used to stroke my hair after one of mother's punishments, how she'd try to discreetly heal my wounds with magic after. 

I'm sorry. I'm getting off track. 

We were drafted into Cailan's army, my brother and I. He learned how to use a sword and I was a master of the twin blades. I was fast. I knew how to pick locks, how to pickpocket. The rogue's life seemed natural in a family like mine. Carver, blundering and over-muscled. Bethany, so sweet and unassuming, hiding her magic. And me. After my father died, I had to provide for the family, so I learned how to steal. Who knew those were army-transferrable traits.

I met Michel there. An Orlesian transfer from Jader. It was just close enough to the Ferelden border that no one really batted an eye. And Cailan approved the vanguard that Orlais sent. Michel had gorgeous light blue eyes and sandy brown hair. They didn't even make him shave it. And oh, his accent, how it sounded when he whispered my name. He was an archer, a fine Antivan bow gifted to him by his mother. My own mother had never given me a gift. Oh, she gave to Carver and Bethany sure. Carver was her baby boy and Bethany was someone she was trying to mold into a good little housewife. Me? What was I?

Michel was drawn to me as I to him. I'd always had toned muscles, but a slight frame. I was tall and somewhat gangly. A good build for a rogue, able to slip into the smaller spaces. Like the small alley between two of the barracks buildings. He was my first kiss, my first everything. Carver caught us. Out of anyone, oh, it had to be Carver. It couldn't have been the Knight-Captain with her sharp eagle eyes or my direct commander – a bit bumbling but so good-natured.

Michel died on the field, I remember. He was with Cailan, died with our king. Me? I was a deserter. And Carver too. The darkspawn were coming and we couldn't wait any longer. We had to save Mother and Bethany. Carver died, but not before telling her my secret. I'd had a choice later that day to save my brother or my sister. Would I change it, given the chance? It doesn't really matter, I suppose. No matter what I did, Mother never would have approved.

I was lucky that she never mentioned Michel except in passing, told me that I'd better get it out of my head that I was going to do anything but marry a woman and give her grandchildren. Under no circumstances would she ever approve of my being with another man. I would produce an heir for the Hawke-Amell line. She would make it happen. She was determined.

So we went to Kirkwall.

And that… that's where things really started to go wrong.


	2. Chapter 2

"There's a letter from Bethany," Hawke said gently, holding up the paper.

He stood in the doorway of his mother's room, not wanting to take a step inside. She'd been crying again. It was a bad day, and Hawke didn't want to accidentally set her off. He thought maybe getting the estate back for her, buying her childhood home, would be enough to make her proud of him. But it was sullied by Bethany's imprisonment in the Circle. To hear Bethany tell of it though, she was well taken care of, working with the younger apprentices who'd taken a shine to her. Hawke exchanged a few letters with First Enchanter Orsino and spoke directly with Knight-Captain Cullen. Cullen owed him, after all, with all he'd done to protect the Order from blood mage infiltration. Bethany was safe.

Leandra was curled up in bed, an untouched breakfast tray on her bedside table. She said nothing.

"Should I leave it on the desk?" Hawke asked.

"Malcolm."

"Garrett," he corrected gently.

"Come here."

Tentatively he took a step inside. Nerves kept him from going to her side. And how pathetic was that? She was his mother, she loved him. She was only doing this for his own good. And wasn't he the one that messed up? The one who let Bethany be taken. He considered taking her on the Deep Roads expedition but Bethany hadn't truly wanted to go and his mother begged him not to take her. She was a mage, strong and capable in her own right. But his mother cried, and so he relented. And when he returned, she was gone, and his mother blamed him.

He should have taken Bethany with him.

"Closer."

He pushed himself forward until he was at her bedside, and allowed her to pull him down so he was kneeling. He craved this, the simple love and affection as she shifted on her mattress, holding him close, kissing his cheek, his ear.

"Malcolm, I miss you."

"Garrett, Mother," he pressed again. He couldn't do this, not today. He had promised to meet Varric. He wanted to help Aveline with a few errands. Merrill asked for his help with a potion she was trying to mix. If only he could have a few hours to himself.

"I miss Carver. And Bethany. Oh my little girl. What are they doing to you in the Gallows?" she sobbed softly.

"They're not doing anything, Mother. I talked to the Knight-Captain."

Leandra sat up suddenly, smacking him hard across the face. "This is your fault!"

Hawke felt the sting on his cheek. Luckily he did not bruise easily, and his beard would cover the mark if he did. "I'm sorry." He wasn't even sure what he was apologizing for anymore, only that he'd caused it.

"If it wasn't for you, we'd still be a family!"

"Yes, Mother." It was best just to agree with her. She was likely tired, handling affairs of the estate. Seneschal Bran had asked them to file a few papers to fully transfer the deed. There was an issue with Grandpa Amell's will and on and on it went.

"You have to take your punishment. It's what your father would want."

_Maker, please, not the cane. The paddle. Or the belt. Anything but the cane._

It was funny, he thought, how much abuse his body could take on regular basis. Running up and down the coast and all over Sundermount, being attacked by random packs of dogs and Tal-Vashoth, giant spiders and blood mages. He'd seen more than his fair share of blood. Yet nothing broke him down quite as thoroughly as his mother's own hand.

"Fetch your father's belt."

_Thank the Maker._

He breathed a little easier at that, and retrieved the leather strip. The buckle had fallen off years ago, and Hawke was thankful for that. He hadn't put his leathers on that day, so he only had to remove his own belt and unlace the ties to his pants. There was a sturdy chair at her desk, one they'd already made use of. He pulled it out, pushed his pants and smalls to his knees, and bent over the back of it. Gripping the cushion, he put his head down and waited.

"You know why you're getting punished, don't you?" she asked.

He didn't. He just knew he had to make up for it.

"You're dirty. And a horrible son. You're nothing like Carver. He would never have let Bethany get taken."

She brought the belt down and he felt the stinging slap over his ass. Not hard enough to make him bleed, but soon he'd have welts. Maybe he could hit up the market for a healing potion on his way to see Varric.

"Yes, Mother," he grunted.

"I wish you'd died instead of him."

That hurt worse than any of the beatings she could administer. He'd heard it more than once, though never around Bethany or Gamlen. Always when they were alone. He tried not to believe it, rationalizing that she was just upset. And likely from something he did. If he just tried harder to save them both, or leapt in front of the ogre, or if they'd deserted sooner, maybe Carver would still be alive.

Five lashes, then ten, and at fifteen Leandra was crying. Hawke waited until the belt hit the floor before he straightened, wincing as his smallclothes scraped agonizingly over his raw bottom. He made to tie his pants, but his mother was there, hugging him tightly from behind, tears wetting his tunic.

"I'm so sorry, Malcolm. I tried to raise them right. I tried to give them everything, and this is how they repaid me."

"Shh," Hawke whispered, turning to hold her, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

"You'll be better, won't you?" she asked.

"Yes, Mother. I promise," he said quietly. He tried, he truly did.

She was pulling him back toward the bed, Hawke's pants slipping down around his ankles. He nearly fell. She laid down, a firm grip around his wrists and Hawke tried to pull back.

"Mother, no. I have things to do today."

"More important than your own mother," she said sadly. "You're such a disappointment. Going off to see your pirate whore?"

Hawke winced. The only one who called Isabela a whore and got away with it was Aveline. He suspected Isabela took it as an endearment.

"No, Mother. Varric-"

"Lowtown dwarven scum. You're an Amell, a noble. Didn't I bring you here so you could be greater? You could be so great…"

She was kissing his neck, pulling at his tunic, and her hands moved down, into his smalls, wrapping around his cock. He shuddered, disgusted with himself. He knew it was wrong, knew he should've done something the first time she ever called him Malcolm. But she was his mother, and he had to do as she said. He hated her seeing so pained, so he'd kept it a secret. Who would he tell, anyway? And more than that, who would believe it? Strong, nimble, agile Hawke who fought darkspawn and righted the wrongs of Kirkwall, unable to fend off his own mother.

He was pathetic.

But she loved him. Even if he was a disappointment, she loved him. And he would take that love any way she would show it. Even if she did whisper his father's name as he pushed inside her. He kept his eyes closed, hips canting slowly.

"Malcolm…"

And when he came, holding back tears, he whispered gently to her.

"It's Garrett, Mother. Garrett."


	3. Chapter 3

Hawke had missed seeing Varric, sent apologies to Merrill, and told Aveline that a cold kept him inside. It was a week before he saw any of his friends again, staying at the estate to look after his mother. Hawke was grateful to Bodahn and Sandal, the latter all too happy to take the dog out for walks. He couldn't be sure if Bodahn knew about his depravity, about how he took care of his mother. The dwarf seemed fond of her, addressed her as, "Mistress Amell," and smiled politely. If he knew anything, he was good at hiding it.

"Oh look, don't you think this would match the plates perfectly?"

He looked over from the trinkets laid out on the merchant's table. Not that he'd needed anything in particular, but his mother wanted to go shopping. He never denied her anything, and most of the money he brought in from running errands or doing odd jobs for Aveline went to his mother's love of interior decorating. And the price tag on the set of linens was steep. Likely because they weren't linen, they were Orlesian silk.

"They are nice," he said somewhat cavalierly.

Leandra scoffed. "You boys and your tastes. If Bethany were here she would agree with me."

_No, she would say you're spending money on frivolities and then dump her coin purse in Lirene's refugee box._

His sister was practical that way.

It didn't stop the pang of guilt he felt as his mother sighed wistfully, no doubt thinking about Bethany locked up in the Gallows. He was just grateful she didn't start crying.

"Leandra? Oh my goodness, it is you!"

Hawke winced. Camille Rhinehart waved delicately from across the square and was heading in their direction. He was glad though, as his mother seemed sufficiently distracted from the overpriced napkins and embraced her childhood friend. They started to talk, and Hawke happily tuned them out, not caring who so-and-so got married to or whether what's-her-name had her breasts magically enhanced. As he was glancing around, his eye caught a familiar hooded figure poking through one of the boxes of reagents near Worthy's stall.

His mother preoccupied with her conversation, Hawke slipped off, moving deftly through the thin crowd, sneaking up behind the person and poking them in the side. There was a surprised yelp and the person turned, hood falling back to reveal wide, almost terrified amber eyes.

"Hawke!" Anders admonished. "Maker, don't do that!"

Hawke chuckled. "Do you think the templars are going to poke you before they arrest you?" he asked.

Anders rubbed his chest, scowling a bit. "Nearly gave me a heart attack." The frown faded into a genuine smile, and he shook his head.

Hawke nudged him a little, and returned the smile. He'd been very fond of Anders almost immediately upon meeting him. Passionate and skilled, and he treated Bethany with respect. She said Anders reminded her of their father, and Hawke could see it. Maybe not physically, but Malcolm was kind, outspoken about mage rights, and a strong healer. He'd been the one to patch up their scraped knees and palms after playing too roughly. And Anders did the same for their group, even begrudgingly healing Fenris's wounds, despite their blatant animosity for one another.

"Who would heal the healer then?" Hawke joked. "I'll be more careful in the future."

"Just be less… less roguish."

"Do you really want that?" Hawke asked. This was dangerous territory. He'd flirted with Anders before, awkwardly laying out some of his worse jokes and horrible puns. But Anders seemed to enjoy it, even flirted back. Hawke wasn't sure how much of a chance he had, but it wasn't as if Anders was opposed to being with another man at least.

"Mm, no," Anders decided. "But be careful. The day you become more charming than me, I might have to put my foot down."

Someone bumped him from behind and Anders, not expecting the jostling, tripped forward. Hawke caught him easily, also catching the pouch of herbs he'd been holding. For a brief moment, he could forget his troubles, holding Anders in his arms. The mage was just a bit taller than him and he smelled of elfroot and spindleweed. Sweet and smoky, earthy. 

"Sorry," the person muttered.

"It's fine," Anders said, righting himself. He was looking at Hawke, a small smile touching his lips.

_Oh just ask him for dinner or something!_

"Anders, do you-"

"Garrett!"

He didn't wince, but his stomach dropped and he took a pronounced step away from Anders before looking to his mother, who was coming over, napkin set in hand.

"I told the merchant to send the bill to the estate," she said, putting the silks into a bag. "Who is this?"

"Mother, you remember my friend Anders. You met him before."

Leandra took in his patched and dirty coat, his stringy hair and her eyes stopped on the blood stain on his trouser knee. Hawke's blood, now that he thought about it. He'd pulled Merrill away from an exploding trap and caught the brunt of it on his back. Shrapnel pierced through his light leather armor and he bled profusely. It hadn't been life-threatening, but the amount of blood was a bit overwhelming, and Anders joked, calling him 'delicate' as he patched him up.

"Yes of course," Leandra said with a tight-lipped smile.

Anders, perhaps sensing that he was no longer welcome to the conversation, raised his eyebrows and looked quickly to Hawke. "Are you coming by the Hanged Man later? It's always better when you're there."

"You just want to borrow money so you try to win at cards against Isabela. It's never going to happen."

"First time for everything," he said, tipping him a wink. "See you then, Hawke. Mrs. Hawke," he added, with a nod to Leandra before pulling his hood back up and disappearing into the crowd.

Hawke was smiling, a bit lighter for having interacted with Anders, that fluttering feeling he always got when he was near the healer. It turned to nervous anxiety when he saw his mother's sour expression. A feeling of cold terror washed over him.

_No,_ he thought. _It was such a nice day. Please…_

She curled a hand around his bicep. To anyone else, it was an innocent gesture, just a mother taking her son's arm as they strolled through the market in the afternoon. But Hawke knew she was making sure he was aware of her displeasure. He hadn't done anything! Had he? It wasn't his fault that Anders fell into him. He was just helping a friend. But his thoughts… his errant, perverse thoughts. He'd dreamed about Anders, thought about him quite a lot. Wanted to kiss him.

He deserved whatever punishment she would give him.

"I think we should head home now, Garrett."

"Yes, all right," he said. "Are you sure you didn't need anything else? Drapes or…"

"No. The day is spoiled, unfortunately. We'll go back out at week's end."

Hawke swallowed hard, nodding at her cold smile, and walked her home.


	4. Chapter 4

Bodahn greeted them cheerfully as they came in, Leandra handing the shopping to him. Hawke followed her obediently to her bedroom, knowing that any attempt to leave would just make it worse later. He tried to run away once in Ferelden. He spent the night in a dirty barn and was chased out in the morning by the owner. He was fifteen and it was a few days after Leandra had taken him to bed for the first time, calling him, 'Malcolm.' He was too confused, too scared to know what to do or how to stop her. She hit him, calling him dirty and telling him what a bad son he was. Luckily the twins were too young to really understand why he'd run.

That was the first time she used the cane on him too. He came back on his own, soaking wet and freezing and just wanting things to go back to normal. He thought maybe she would've been worried about him, would've cried and hugged him and apologized and told him how much she loved him. But she didn't. She sent Bethany and Carver to the other room and took out a long, thin cane. He recognized it as the beginnings of another staff his father had been working on in order to give to Bethany. And then she beat him bloody, making him apologize for running away.

"Please, Mother, I don't know-"

"You do."

"I didn't do anything!" he protested. It was a lie, wasn't it? Otherwise why would she be glaring at him now?

"The chair, Garrett."

Hands shaking, he moved to obey. It had been such a nice day. Why couldn't he just learn to keep her happy? Why did he always have to mess things up? He lifted his tunic and bent over the chair, bracing himself as his pants and smalls pooled around his feet.

"What do you do with him when I'm not around?" she asked quietly.

"What?" Hawke asked. "Nothing! I swear it!"

"Liar."

"I didn't!"

He was too panicked, thinking about what she might have inferred from their brief meeting that he didn't identify the sound of the cane whipping through the air until it cracked over his backside. He cried out in surprise, nearly falling forward, tripping over his trousers and the chair. She gave him only a few seconds to right and ready himself before she brought it down again. Pain radiated over his bottom and down his shaking legs.

"Dirty!" she yelled.

"Yes, Mother," he choked out, closing his eyes tightly against the pain.

"Do you masturbate thinking about him?"

He had. Once. And he felt horrible after, but it was so hard to get Anders' face out of his head, his soft voice, his gentle laugh.

"Don't lie to me," she warned.

"Yes, Mother," he whispered.

The cane cracked along his ass again and he felt the skin split. Howling in pain, he could no longer stop his tears. The humiliation, the agony, and the disappointment he'd caused, it was too much.

"I'm sorry!" he cried. "I'm so sorry!"

"I've tried," she said, her voice sorrowful. "I've tried so hard. I've given so much of myself to you Garrett. Don't you love me?"

"Yes! Yes, I love you," he insisted. "Please don't hit me again."

He felt a few thin droplets of blood slowly slide down his thighs.

"Yet you do this. Do you know that there are people, good people in Hightown who would see you married to their daughters? You could bring pride to the Amell family name. Do you hate me that much that you would flirt with gutter trash like him?"

Hawke was trembling, gripping the seat of the chair, nails digging into the wood. His entire lower body felt like it was on fire. She whipped the cane through the air again, the whistle-crack of another strike and he cried.

"I'm sorry! Mommy please, I'm so, so sor-" His chest hitched.

"You'll learn, then. You'll learn. Stand up."

He had no idea why she was ordering him to do this, what she wanted. More punishment? He straightened the best he could, knees shaking as he turned, and yelped in surprise as she gripped his cock, squeezing hard. He closed his eyes.

"Please," he begged.

She stroked him and he prayed to the Maker that he wouldn't get an erection.

"You're dirty," she said. "Thinking about that man. Why couldn't you be more like Carver? He had a girlfriend. He loved women. He would've given me grandchildren."

Despite himself, he felt his cock harden at her touch.

"You're thinking about him right now, aren't you?" she demanded.

"No, I swear it!"

"Look at yourself," she said, stepping back.

Hawke lifted a hand, wiping tears from his face and looked down. Blood from his wounds had dripped down into his smalls around his ankle. His cock jutted out from between his legs, hard and ready. She took him in hand again, squeezing, and it was too much. He cried out, fists clenching, knowing better than to try to stop her. What would he even do? Hit her? She was his mother, he couldn't do that.

"You want to touch yourself and think of him, like the disgusting pervert that you are. Do it."

"Wh-what?" he asked, looking at her.

She glared at him and stroked hard, the friction burning before she let him go. Then, before he could block her, she brought the back of her hand down hard, smacking his cock. Startled from both the hit and the pain, he stumbled backward, abused ass hitting the chair, and he fell to the ground, curling up.

"Take yourself in hand!"

The tears returned as he reached down to stroke himself. "Please..."

"If you're going to be a dirty, perverted little boy, I'll treat you like one!"

He stroked faster, hoping to get it over with more quickly so she would let him leave. He kept his eyes shut, trying not to think of anything as he pumped his hand. There was no pleasure in this. When he'd done it before in his own bed, thinking about Anders, it was pleasant. The fantasy that crept into his brain was nice, it was sweet. Anders had just finished patching him up and they shared a drink before Anders leaned forward and kissed him. It was innocent, just a little thing, but it made him so happy.

"Faster!" Leandra ordered. She opened the drawer and took Malcolm's belt from it.

Hawke looked up and shut his eyes quickly, screaming as the belt came down over his hand and cock. It hurt, Maker it hurt so bad.

"Filthy boy."

"Y-yes," he sobbed, unable to move his hand anymore.

"I'm going to clean up. I have dinner at the Rhineharts. Go to your dirty Lowtown bar if you must. But if I ever see you with him again, you'll get worse than that. I am so, so embarrassed for you right now, Garrett. I raised you better than this."

"Yes, Mother."

She knelt down, and he winced as she brushed a few strands of hair off his sweaty forehead before kissing him gently. "You know I love you, right?"

Hawke nodded. Of course he knew. She was just trying to teach him to be better. To be a good son.

"I only do this for your own good. Now. Kiss me," she said, offering her cheek. "And we can put this behind us."

He leaned up and pressed a weak, wet kiss to her cheek. She smiled and stroked his hair.

"Good boy."

He listened to her leave. It was several minutes before he could pull his pants to his thighs, unable to get them up any further without agonizing pain. He crawled to the door, ass and legs aching horrible. Peeking out of her room, he waited until Bodahn's back was turned before he half-stumbled half-crawled to his room. Using the leftover basin of water from the previous night, he stripped and wiped up the blood from his legs. Unable to easily reach the wounds on his bottom, pain radiating through every inch of his lower body, he simply collapsed naked and face down into his bed. He winced as his penis, flaccid now, came in contact with the sheets. It was preferable to lying on his side though, and moving to his back was not an option.

He considered calling for Bodahn to ask him for a healing potion, some elfroot, anything for the pain. But the humiliation of the dwarf seeing him in this position outweighed the need for relief. He gathered the pillow up and lifted his hips, moving it down underneath him and whimpered. The cool feel of the linen against his aching cock was little comfort, but better than the mattress. Feeling sick and exhausted, he fell into a restless sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

"Are you limping?"

Hawke ignored the question. He felt bad because it was Merrill. But he also knew she wouldn't ask again, thinking perhaps he didn't hear her. Varric engaged her in conversation, but Anders drew level with him as they walked further down the coast, further away from Kirkwall. Leandra couldn't argue as he was doing a favor for Aveline. She'd danced too much around the issue of her and the guardsman Donnic, and Hawke was determined that she would be happy. Even if he couldn't be.

"Hawke, you _are_ limping," Anders noted. "Did you take a bad fall?"

"No, just leave it."

Anders reached up, touching him on the shoulder and Hawke nearly hit him, shoving it off quickly. He looked hurt as he pulled his hand back.

"I said leave it," Hawke growled.

"…Sorry."

Maker, he didn't need this.

"I'm fine."

"Whatever you say, Hawke."

But there was a coolness in his tone that wasn't usually there. Normally reserved in public, relaxed sometimes around his friends, Hawke felt his resolve slipping. He blinked quickly and swallowed hard, increasing his pace to the next signal fire. Fighting bandits, though he was still sore from the punishment, was easy for him. He was angry. Angry with himself, angry at the situation he found himself in. He never meant to disappoint his mother. Couldn't she see that? If he could help it, if he could change himself, he would. He would find a nice woman and marry her and settle down. He would do that if it made her happy. But he would always be dirty, always tainted.

"Hawke! Hawke, he's dead!" Varric said, grabbing Hawke's arm.

Hawke looked down, arm raised about to shove his dagger yet again into the bandit's chest. The blade was wet with blood, Hawke's leathers smeared and sticky with it. Merrill was watching, wide-eyed, one delicate hand over her mouth. He looked back at Varric, whose concerned gaze only made him feel more ashamed. He wiped the dagger on the bandit's tunic and stood.

"Someone light the damn fire and let's move on," he said, wincing and limping more pronounced as he hurried away.

He didn't want to hear their whispers, see their worried faces. It was his fault; he'd brought this on himself. Perhaps his mother was right. He should stop hanging out with them. He was an Amell, or as close to any that were left in high society. He would take his mother's maiden name, become a lord, marry into a good family and produce heirs. It was his duty. He had to in order to make his mother happy. He would give anything to make her happy.

At the end of the trail, Aveline still hadn't said anything to Donnic, and Merrill blurted out the real reason they'd been out on the coast. Aveline blamed him. Of course she did. It was his fault. Everything was. If he'd only been faster or better or smarter, how many more people could he have saved? Carver would be alive. His mother would be happy to have her favorite son back. Carver never did anything wrong. Bethany would be out of the Circle. And Aveline wouldn't have to reprimand him.

He ignored the banter between Varric and Anders as he led the way back to Kirkwall, ignored the pain in his ass and legs. The wounds weren't quite closed, but he'd taken a lot of care, sliding a bit of padding in his smallclothes. Using the privy was almost out of the question and he tried to avoid anything too solid to eat. Relieving himself had become an agony. Several days of that, and he'd been very careful not to upset his mother. He couldn't take another punishment so close to the last.

Waiting nervously outside the captain's office, Hawke ignored the chair. Sitting was impossible. He'd taken to sleeping only on his stomach now. It had been months since she used the cane last, preferring the belt since he could comfort her after. But at least the caning meant she would leave him be for a week or two while he recovered. She didn't require him to sit through boring dinners to try to meet an eligible wife, didn't make him sit with her while she did the sewing, her hand idly stroking his thigh on occasion. He hadn't quite figured out how or why, but he knew he had to repent for his father's death. He had to make sure she was taken care of always now that Malcolm was gone.

Aveline didn't yell at him. He'd been expecting it. Used to it being his fault. But she thanked him instead, and he left, feeling more confused and tired than ever. Varric invited him for a drink, but he declined and hurried away.

"Hawke!"

It was Anders, but he couldn't stop. He had to get home. What if his mother was back from one of her outings and found that he wasn't home yet? She would ask at the keep and Aveline would tell her that he left long ago and he'd have to explain where he was. Halfway to a panic attack, he almost fell down the stairs as a hand clamped down on his arm.

"Hawke!"

"Anders, leave me be."

"Hawke, I need a word."

Hawke looked up at him, frowning. "Anders."

"Do you have a minute? I need a hand with a few things in the clinic. I'd have asked Varric…"

Hawke glanced down the steps toward his estate. It was dark, the lights out. His mother wasn't home yet. But he should be there, he should go and wait for her. He looked at Anders, opening his mouth to decline.

"Please," Anders asked, a sad smile on his lips.

"I…" He felt his resolve crumbling. Despite it all, despite the fact he knew it was wrong, that he would hurt his mother, he couldn't say no. Anders was a friend. He'd helped Hawke out more times than Hawke could count. And he hardly ever asked for anything in return. So he nodded. "Alright. Just… we have to make it quick. I'm supposed to be home…"

"It will be," Anders promised.

Feeling a nervous fluttering in his stomach that was one part anticipation, one part anxiety, Hawke allowed Anders to lead him into Darktown.


	6. Chapter 6

Hawke liked how the clinic smelled. Maybe not the rest of the Darktown, the pungent odor of fish and decay, but the clinic reminded him of Ferelden. Perhaps it was the herbs Anders used. Under the sharp scent of antiseptic there was something woodsier. Something that was calming. He wondered if Anders did that on purpose to put his patients at ease. He preceded Anders inside, turning worriedly at the sound of a lock clicking. Anders was tucking the key into his pocket.

"This require you to the lock the doors?" Hawke asked.

"It'll only take a minute," Anders assured him, waving him over to the partitioned off area near the back of the clinic. "Have a seat."

"I'd rather stand."

"You've been on your feet all day," Anders said. "And yesterday in the Hanged Man."

"I'd just rather stand," Hawke repeated lamely. He hadn't been able to come up with a proper excuse. At least at the tavern he could blame how full it was, that there wasn't an open chair.

Anders sighed softly. "Would it help if I asked you as a healer, not as a friend what the matter was? Completely professional," he said, holding one hand up, the other over his heart. "Maker's honest."

"You're the furthest thing from a devout Andrastian that I've ever met," Hawke said.

"Oh I don't know. Isabela could give me a run for my money."

Despite himself, Hawke smiled a little, and Anders' eyes lit up.

"There!" he said.

"What?" Hawke asked. "What where?"

"Your smile. It's been missing for a few days now, Hawke."

Hawke hated how concerned he was, how happy he seemed now. Why, out of any of his friends, did he have to fall for Anders? The only worse person would have been Fenris . A man and an elf. Or he could've fallen for Varric. He laughed internally at what his mother would've had to say about that. Anders, though, he was human. Not that Hawke was racist, but his mother had always seemed to be. She tolerated Bodahn as a servant, and when the neighbors asked, she explained that Hawke had saved Sandal's life. In exchange, Bodahn served them faithfully. Hawke thought she was proud of him maybe for the first time in his life.

But he was wrong.

Whenever she had to tell the story, he knew a punishment would come with it. Part of him wanted to ask Bodahn to leave, but he knew that would only raise more questions with the neighbors. It would embarrass his mother. He'd have to wait until the dwarf left of his own accord. But Maker only knew when that would be.

"I'm fine," Hawke said lamely.

Anders looked at him a moment, contemplating, appraising. "Let me heal your ills then, and I'll let it go."

"I can't."

"Was it rough sex?"

Hawke sputtered a moment, eyes wide. "What? What are you talking about?"

Anders' tone wasn't teasing, there was no mischief in his eyes. He was serious, using his doctor's voice. "I have some experience with it. First time penetration can be rough especially if you're not prepared properly. It can make walking difficult, sitting down, even relieving yourself. I can heal you if you let me, and I promise I won't say a thing to anyone."

"I didn't have sex!" Hawke insisted.

In fact, he'd only ever been with two people in his life. His very first time was at Ostagar. His very last, just a few weeks ago.

"Then a sexual aid?" Anders suggested, keeping his tone even. "If you tore something-"

"Nothing was up my ass!" Hawke shouted. Then, realizing the absurdity of the statement, he started to laugh.

When he couldn't stop, weeks of nervousness, of disappointment, of exhaustion and pain bubbling up and spilling over came out as almost manic cackling, Anders cracked a very small smile, shaking his head. He put a gentle hand on Hawke's shoulder, and Hawke leaned in slowly, gasping for breath before coming to relax against him. He was so warm and strong, and being in his arms felt so _right_. How could this be wrong or dirty or anything but perfect? Caution to the wind, unable to help himself, he leaned back, gripping Anders' coat.

"Hawke, what-"

But Hawke silenced him, covering Anders' lips with his own, kissing him sloppily, desperately. Anders wouldn't judge him, wouldn’t call him dirty or depraved or a freak. Anders understood. He was different. He was a mage, looked down on all his life, disrespected just for being who he was. He wouldn't care that he, Hawke, was a failure. That he'd let his brother die, let his sister get taken. He only wanted love and acceptance. Anders could give that to him. And Anders was kissing back, arms wrapping around him tentatively.

Anders slowed the pace of the kiss, showing Hawke how, cupping his jaw carefully, thumbs brushing his cheeks. He urged Hawke's lips to part, relaxing him. Hawke moaned, a quiet, needy sound from the back of his throat. In that kiss he remembered what it was like to be loved. He remembered Ostagar, his first time with someone like Anders. When the kiss ended, when Anders pulled back, Hawke didn't want to let go. He wrapped his arms around his middle, face buried in his neck, as if he could gain comfort and protection from sheer proximity.

"Hawke," Anders said gently, one hand coming to rest in his hair. "You're scaring me."

Hawke let out a mirthless laugh. "Scaring… How?"

"You seem fine one day, then you disappear for days at a time. When you come back, you're quiet, subdued. I… I've seen behavior like this before but from you it doesn't make sense." He leaned back, gently cupping Hawke's face, thumbs brushing his beard. He kissed him almost chastely.

Hawke nearly wept.

"Where… have you seen it before?"

"In the Circle," Anders replied quietly. "Apprentices. Ones who… were forced by templars. Abused, dragged to the clinic there where the healers were told that it was a just punishment for some imagined crime."

Hawke looked away. How could he tell Anders the truth? Templars and mages were one thing. The systematic abuse of the Circle mage was something he understood. Between his father's warnings against it, trying to keep Bethany safe, and Anders' own recollection of the tower, Hawke was well aware of it. But that was a templar, a man in full metal plate that could call for the mage's tranquility. The templar had all the power. This… this was his mother. His tiny, petite, loving, sweet mother. And himself? Perhaps not a broad-shouldered, well-muscled warrior in plate armor, but he was strong. He'd faced bandits and smugglers and giant spiders.

"You don't have to tell me who," Anders said gently. "Just let me heal you."

Hawke swallowed hard and nodded. Anders stepped back, releasing him, and Hawke immediately missed his warm, comforting embrace. He turned around slowly and with shaking hands, removed his belt, dropping it on the ground, and unlaced his pants. Wincing, he carefully drew them down. His smallclothes probably looked ridiculous from the back, padded as they were with extra bits of linen he'd purchased. Not the nice Orlesian silks from Hightown, but leftover scraps he bought from a tailor at discount. Gingerly he pulled his smallclothes down, hissing as he pulled the linen from the healing wounds.

"Easy," Anders said. "Let me."

There was a hand on the small of his back and he leaned forward a bit. A warm bit of healing magic relieved the pain as Anders peeled the linen from the wounds.

"Maker's breath, Hawke. They look infected."

"I'm sorry," Hawke muttered.

"No. Don't be. Don't apologize for that. Just… let me get you out of your boots and I'll help you onto the table."

"No! I can do it," Hawke said quickly.

He felt Anders move away, and he knelt carefully, removing one boot and then the other before stepping out of his pants. He removed his boiled leather jerkin and held up the edge of his tunic to keep it from brushing the wounds on his bottom. Anders drew a sheet over the table and held his arm as Hawke got to his hands and knees atop it.

"I'm going to treat them first to get rid of the infection, then I'll heal the cuts. You still might scar," Anders added apologetically.

"It's okay," Hawke whispered.

Anders was professional in his treatment, his hands never strayed as he worked the cool salve over the wounds. Hawke shivered, keeping his head down, eyes closed. His arms shook and he moved down to his elbows, dropping his head into his hands, palms pressed against his forehead.

"That part's finished. I'm going to heal the cuts. You'll feel some warmth, maybe a bit of tingling, and my hands. Tell me if you feel any pain."

Hawke nodded, unable to speak. It was a juxtaposition of gratitude and embarrassment. That Anders wasn't treating him like a child or like a wounded animal, that he wasn't laughing or poking fun or worse, alluding to what might have happened or being crude. He was… treating him like an equal. What would his mother say? That he was disgusting for letting another man touch him this way. That he was weak because he couldn't take the pain. He must've sobbed or made a noise, because Anders stopped.

"All right?"

"Yes, I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize. It's fine. Here I go."

It was warm like Anders said, and he did feel a tingling as each angry wound closed, knitting back together. Two fingers traced every mark, and the pain faded with it. A quick, radiating burst of heat and energy moved down his legs, making him weak, but taking the soreness. He wobbled and nearly fell, Anders there to catch him and ease him down. Hawke stretched out his legs, feeling exhausted.

"It's okay to sleep," Anders said. "Your body's been through a lot to handle all of that." He pulled down Hawke's tunic and took up another blanket, laying it over top of him. "I'll watch over you. I promise."

"I'm not…"

"Not what?"

Hawke was halfway asleep. "Weak."

He felt a soft hand in his hair, brushing it back.

"No, Hawke. Definitely not weak."

Hawke fell asleep, smiling.


	7. Chapter 7

Hawke woke with a start, jerking up and looking around. It took him a moment to get his bearings, to remember where he was. The clinic. Anders' clinic. It was empty, the first rays of the morning sunlight shining through the high windows. Maker, he'd fallen asleep here. But why? He should've gone home right after helping Aveline. The soreness in his bottom and legs returned as he tried to move, and he hissed, then yelped in pain.

"Hawke?" Anders called from somewhere near the front of the clinic.

He approached, his coat removed, sleeves pushed up. Hawke had never noticed before what nice arms Anders had. Then again, he couldn't ever remember seeing them. Impulsively he reached out, touching his right wrist, running his fingertips up over the light blond hair, stopping at his elbow. Anders tilted his head, looking down at him, a slightly confused smile on his lips.

"Are you feeling all right?"

"Sore. I need to get home. My pants…"

"I washed them last night when you were asleep. They're drying now."

"Maker, Anders. I don't care if they're soaking wet. I need to go!"

"Wait," Anders said, pushing him back down to the table. "Hawke, we need to talk."

Hawke looked up at him, feeling betrayed. "You said I didn't have to tell you who did this."

"No, not about that. I won't force you to tell me if you don't want to." A pause that said he wanted to know all the same. But he continued. "It's just… last night when you kissed me."

Oh.

That.

Hawked frowned, pulling the blanket up a bit, covering himself a little more, though he was sure Anders had seen everything last night. The kiss – kisses – they shared still burned in his memory, made his lips tingle. He wanted nothing more than to pull him down and kiss him again. But he couldn't. He was in enough trouble already. His mother would be livid. She would punish him. He disappointed her again.

"We'll talk about it later. I have to go home."

"Hawke-"

"Anders, please."

He hadn't meant to sound so desperate, so helpless. Anders frowned but backed away, retrieving his pants and smallclothes, turning around after he handed them over. Hawke took the damp garments and dressed before pulling on his boots. He was almost to the door when he stopped, turned, and walked back to Anders. 

"I promise we'll talk," Hawke said, and leaned up, kissing him quickly.

Before Anders could respond or protest or grab him, Hawke left, fleeing the clinic and hurrying up the steps to the Amell basement. His only hope was that his mother was still asleep and he could claim that he got in late and only just woke up. Aveline would hopefully cover for him that she'd kept him with paperwork or something equally tedious. But luck simply wasn't with him, and as he entered the main hall, turning to go up the stairs to his room, she came out of the library.

"Garrett?"

He paused, hand on the railing, blood going cold. Slowly he turned around to look at her. "Mother."

"Where were you all night?"

"With friends," he said, which was not entirely a lie.

She crossed her arms, frowning. "They're not your friends, Garrett. They're using you to get ahead in this town."

"Mother, please." It was a lie, right?

But the more he thought about it, the more it made sense. Aveline piggybacked into Kirkwall off the jobs he and Carver did. Varric needed him for money to fund the expedition. Isabela demanded he watch her back. Merrill left her clan and Marethari asked that he look after her. Meeting Fenris had been no more than a setup and he asked Hawke for help with Danarius. And Anders… Anders refused to help him with the maps until Hawke helped him with Karl.

"I give you everything and still you defy and embarrass me!"

"No, I didn't mean-"

"Why do you hate me, Garrett?" She was starting to cry.

"I don't!" he insisted, and stepped forward, hugging her tightly. "I don't, Mother. Please. Please don't cry. I'm sorry."

She sniffed against his shirt. "You know you have to be punished."

"Mother…"

"You," she sobbed, "you need to be… taught a lesson."

"Please, Mother, I… the cane, it hurts."

She shoved him away. "Don't you think it hurts me to do that to you? Don't you think _I_ suffer when I have to punish you? Why are you so selfish, Garrett? I thought I raised you to be better!"

He hung his head, frowning.

"Go upstairs, strip, and lay down in the bed."

"Mother, I don't want-"

She slapped him across the face. It didn't hurt as much as her disappointment.

"Go."

He went, not knowing what his punishment would be this time. He unlaced his boots and undressed, laying down on her bed, waiting. She came in, holding a knife and a bottle of elfroot potion. He curled up instinctively.

"What's that for?" he asked, eyeing it warily.

"Let me see your backside."

Worried, he rolled over.

"The marks are gone, Garrett." Her tone was low and even, terrifying to Hawke. "Did you see that healer?"

He clutched the pillow. "No," he lied.

She opened her dresser drawer and took out the belt. He braced himself for the hit. The leather cracked over his ass and he hissed in pain.

"Do. Not. Lie to me!" she screamed. "Stretch out, on your stomach fully! You need another lesson, Garrett!"

He laid down, face buried in the pillow, whimpering as she brought the belt down again and again.

_At least it’s not the cane. At least it's not the cane._

It became his mantra as she screamed, hitting him harder and harder with every blow. He deserved it. He'd seen Anders when she told him not to. He was a bad son. All she wanted was a good son, someone who loved her and took care of her. Someone to give her grandchildren and make her happy. And he couldn't do that. She'd given him everything and why couldn't he just do this one thing for her?

"Roll over, Garrett."

He did, wincing at the pain. Maybe she would hug him now, and kiss him, and he could show her that he loved her just the way Malcolm did. But she was lighting a candle, holding the blade over the flame. Shaking, he propped himself up a little.

"Mother, what are you doing?"

"Since you're a dirty little boy who insists on thinking with his penis, I'm going to remove that part of you. Then maybe you'll understand. Maybe you'll actually respect your mother."

No.

_No!_

He cupped himself, backing away quickly, falling off the bed. She looked over at him, frowning.

"We'll just wait for the knife to get hot."

"No, you can't!"

She crossed the room quickly and he only just managed to put his hand up to block the knife swipe. The blade, hot and sharp, cut along his forearm. He cried out, crimson droplets spilling to the floor.

"Don't you EVER talk back to me again!"

His eyes filled with tears. "Yes… yes, Mother. Please… I don't…"

He was panicking. He would promise her the world. He would do anything. He'd even take the cane again. She moved back to the candle, holding the knife over it to get it hot once more. Hawke, paralyzed with fear, couldn't move from his spot on the floor.

"Get on the bed, Garrett. Don't make me tell you again."

A very loud knock on the front door interrupted them. Hawke waited, tense. Maybe, just maybe if he had a few more minutes he could convince her not to do this. She placed the knife on the bedside table.

"You'd better be on that mattress by the time I come back," she warned before leaving.

He scrambled to the door as she left, listening.

"Good morning, Mrs. Hawke."

Anders.

Hawke's stomach twisted in fear. Why would Anders be here? Didn't he realize he was just making it worse? He prayed to the Maker that Anders would just go away, leave them alone. They would all be better off. Hawke didn't need friends. He had his mother. He would take care of her and she of him and it would all be for the best.

"Hawke left his armor in my clinic. I was just returning it."

_You fool! You could've sent it up anonymously. Or given it to Aveline. Or burned the damn thing!_

"Thank you. I'll see to it that he gets it."

"Only does he have a minute?" Anders asked sweetly. "I needed to talk to him about a follow-up inspection."

"Garrett is fine. He's resting. We don't need your help, serah. Have a good day."

She slammed the door in his face, and Hawke quickly dove onto the bed. There was silence for a minute, then the sound of her throwing the leather jerkin into the library before coming back upstairs. Hawke cowered in the bed, knees drawn up, eyes on the knife. His mother came into the room, looking ruffled and upset.

"Garrett. That man was on my doorstep."

"I'm sorry," he muttered. "I'll make sure he doesn't come back."

"No. You won't see him again. Do you understand?" She took up the knife. "I have to do this, Garrett."

"No… please," He curled up in the corner of the bed, hugging his knees to his chest.

"You understand," she said, taking a step forward. "This is for your own good."

She looked so sad. He wondered just what he'd done wrong. Kissing Anders? Desiring him? But last night in the clinic was the first in a long time that he'd gone to sleep feeling safe. Feeling loved. His time with his mother, he loved her, yes. But she made him feel sick. Feel ashamed. She reached out, grabbing him around his wrist, smearing the blood from the knife wound she'd made, and pulled hard.

"NO!" Garrett tried to pull back, scared to put his full strength behind it. "Please, Mother!"

The door flung wide. Silhouetted in the frame stood Anders, skin peppered with glowing blue cracks.


	8. Chapter 8

Hawke realized a second too late, crying out as he watched Justice send a force wave of energy toward his mother. Her body lifted in the air and slammed against the floor, the knife dropping to the ground. She crumpled to the ground. For a moment no one moved, Hawke looking at his mother's unconscious form, a blossoming feeling of terror in his chest. His first thought, irrational as it was, was that she would definitely cane him for this. And then Anders was moving, crossing the room and coming to kneel next to him on the bed. 

"Hawke. Hawke, breathe."

He took a few deep gasping breaths, felt the wound on his arm closing up, Anders' healing warmth against his skin. Only when Anders' hands were cupping his face did he focus, looking into two concerned-filled amber eyes.

"Anders," he breathed, reaching up to grip his shoulder.

"It's all right Hawke. You're going to be okay now. Come on."

Anders left him briefly but returned in a second, helping him on with pants and shirt, Hawke letting him pull him to his feet. He turned, pulling away from Anders and went to his mother's side, kneeling down.

"Mother?"

Leandra groaned, eyes opening. "Malcolm?"

"No, it's Garrett."

"What did you do, Garrett?" she whispered, head lolling over to look at him. "What did you… you chose him over me, didn't you? Your own mother. You… I'm so disappointed."

Hawke shook his head vehemently. "No, no, Mother. I…"

Anders stepped forward, pulling Hawke away from Leandra. "Hawke. Let's go."

"You!" Leandra hissed at Anders. "You corrupted my baby boy and you turned him against his own mother!" She struggled to sit up.

Anders shoved her back, not with magic this time, but with his own hand. He knelt down next to her, looked her in the eye. "There are enough horrors in this world, enough abuses that people are made to suffer without adding your insanity to it. Hawke is a good man. I've seen him save countless lives and I will not allow you to treat him like this." His voice was steady and quiet.

Hawke wanted to tell him to stop, that this was his mother. She was right. Wasn't she? But Anders was a good friend. He'd always been there for him, for their group. The only thing he ever complained about was the Chantry, the templars. He took everyone's teasing in stride.

_Maybe… maybe he's right._

Leandra looked to Hawke. "Garrett. Do something."

Hawke swallowed. He opened his mouth to say something, but his eyes fell on the knife a few feet from her hand.

_She would've done it. Even though you begged her not to, she would've cut you. You don't deserve that._

With a shaking hand he reached out, fingers entwining with Anders'. Leandra frowned, tears in her eyes.

"Garrett. My baby boy…"

"No," he whispered, and felt his own tears welling up. "Not anymore. Not… No."

Anders pulled him away, leading him out of the room, and stopped in the doorway to look back at her. "This is Hawke's house," he said. "You have a week to remove yourself from it. Maker help me, if you're not gone, I will use every last resource I have to see to it that you're thrown out without a copper to your name."

Leandra narrowed her eyes, glaring at him. Anders tugged on Hawke's hand. They didn't speak until they reached the clinic, Anders extinguishing the lanterns and locking the door behind them. Hawke nearly collapsed, Anders there to hold him up. He clung to him tightly, arms wrapped around the healer, feeling weak and pathetic.

"I'm sorry," he said, the words muffled by the feathered pauldrons.

"You have nothing to be sorry for," Anders said sternly. "If anything I should be apologizing to you, Hawke. I had no idea. How long…?"

Hawke sniffed, though he wasn't crying. "It's…" How long had it been? Ten years? More? "Long time," he said finally. "I just… I tried to make her happy. I did."

Anders smoothed his hair, kissing his forehead. "You are the most selfless, amazing person I have met in a very, very long time, Hawke. Leandra's issues are her own. She had no right to hurt you."

He looked at Anders, searching for any kind of disapproval in his eyes. Anders didn't look down at him, didn't see him as a failure. He didn't blame Hawke for Bethany's getting locked up in the Circle or Carver's death. Hawke moved back into his embrace and gripped him tightly. He wasn't sure how long they stood there like that, Anders rubbing his back slowly, whispering quiet words of affection and assurance.

"It's not the most glamorous place," Anders said. "But you can stay here. I'll handle everything, I promise."

Hawke nodded quickly. Letting someone else handle it, that was something he'd never done before. Ever since his father died, he'd been in charge, it had always been on his shoulders. After everything, he just felt so very tired and broken down. Anders seemed to understand and simply guided him to the back of the clinic, helping him into a cot. Hawke rolled over, face in the pillow and inhaled. It smelled like Anders.

"I have to talk to Varric," Anders said, crouching down to look at him. "Will you be okay here by yourself for a bit?" He laid a gentle hand on Hawke's shoulder.

"Mmhm," Hawke mumbled. "Anders."

"Yes?"

"About… the kiss."

Anders smiled, and Hawke couldn't help but return it.

"We'll talk about that later."

Hawke nodded, and Anders kissed his forehead gently before leaving. Hawke listened to the sound of the Waking Sea outside, the call of the gulls. Feeling safe for the first time in a long time, he drew up the thin blanket around his shoulders and closed his eyes. Exhausted, he fell asleep.


	9. Chapter 9

Leandra Hawke ended up killing herself. I was there to comfort Hawke through it. Well, myself and the rest of his friends. It was the scandal of Hightown for a while and he ended up selling the estate and everything in it. Varric handled the transaction, getting a rather good price for it, too. After a lot of thought, he did end up purchasing another, though nowhere near as close to central Hightown, and insisted I move in.

He says I saved his life that day. I don't know if that's entirely the truth. He's a lot stronger than he gives himself credit for. I worry that he blames me for her death. It's even worse that I know he blames himself. Some nights it's too hard for him to get through the nightmares, but we muddle through. I told him about my own father, how he turned me so easily over to the templars. We shared the horrors of our pasts and how it made us stronger. I think he's finally starting to believe it.

Aveline insisted he be the best man at her wedding. After all, it was Hawke's doing that brought them together. It was a nice, quiet affair with few guests. We danced together. Or, more accurately I danced and he trod all over my feet. He's agile in everything except that, apparently, my cautious rogue. Aveline, I think, understood what happened. She offered support, throwing her weight around the Guard to make sure Hawke was left alone after his mother died. If she talked to Hawke at all about Leandra's abuses, I never heard about it.

Bethany took the news better than I thought. I braved the Gallows the day he told her, stood aside to watch them hug under the watchful eye of the Knight-Captain. Apparently templars will make an exception when a family member dies. But I digress, this isn't about mages or templars. This is about family. And when Bethany hugged me too, thanking me with a whisper, I felt a part of that.

He likes holding my hand. And kissing me. I admit that I was a little hesitant at first, but our attraction to one another was fairly clear on the day we met. I try not to let my past experiences color this one. Hawke is attentive, sometimes overly so. We're working on it. Neither of us have had the easiest lives, and we fight like any normal couple. Well, as normal as things get in Kirkwall. The most important thing I think that to take away from this is a lesson that most people would do well to remember:

Just because people are blood doesn't mean they're family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very emotional run for me with this one. I hope I did the prompt justice.
> 
> I have to thank my wonderful girlfriend for the amazing title. Hopefully you all can appreciate her humor. (If you're unfamiliar with it and interested, look up the movie 'Mommie, Dearest')
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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